


Singing the Same Old Song

by overthetiber



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Non-Graphic Violence, alpha!DD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overthetiber/pseuds/overthetiber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Draconian Dignitary deals with a week of sociopolitical unrest, terrible business decor choices, and unexpected fairy sightings. Also, Aradia Megido drinks a pomegranate margarita.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Singing the Same Old Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Person](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Person/gifts).



> This is set loosely around the time of [S] Prince: Rise up. Dad Crocker has not been captured yet, but the Archagent has.

One Monday, on your weekly swing through the morgue, you see a fairy.

She’s not really a fairy, of course. She’s one of those weird little troll kids in the space pajamas. Her hood doesn’t even start to conceal her horns. But she has wings and a big, bright alien smile, and maybe that’s why you don’t kill her when you first spot her among the headstones. Or maybe it’s because she ollies the fuck out of there after she sees you. Yeah, it’s because she ollies the fuck out of there after she sees you.

Here’s how it happens. The morgue has a tiny cemetery out back where they bury the unclaimed John and Jane Does. You have completed your inspection and are now allowing the proprietor to nervously show you out the back door, the preferred exit of all high-ranking government officials. Then you sight a flash of red.

She’s crouched over one of the graves, gray fingers tracing the epitaph. The morgue proprietor squeaks in horror. When she turns, meeting your eyes, something like recognition crosses her face. She smiles at you.

Suddenly she says, “Oh!” like she made a private joke before remembering you weren’t in on it, and disappears. You have to take the proprietor’s money just to get him to stop apologizing. 

The boss is all tied up when you call to tell her about it. Lady’s got a lot on her plate; you can handle this one on your own.

One thing’s for sure. This fairy troll won’t be sticking around for long.

\--

You spend Tuesday processing minor civil violations. What this boils down to is lining delinquents up; allowing your subordinates to deliver snide remarks while you cut a smooth, silent executive figure; and issuing death sentences, banishments, and raps to the head as necessary. It’s thankless work, but somebody has to do it.

On Wednesday night, a gang of miscreants jumps you in an alley. You should have seen it coming. You did not see it coming, so you neglected to stash more than two small guns on your person. A dame you busted for littering last week grabs the first gun and your radio. The second gun runs out of ammo once Mr. Six Jaywalking Convictions In The Past Year, who was surprisingly light on his feet, has been dispatched. Things aren’t looking good for you.

Three fellows whose improperly ironed collars netted them public indecency charges have you bleeding and pinned against the wall when she shows up. She knocks one down with five fast punches, kicks another in the crotch, and steals the third’s crowbar to shatter his kneecaps. An approaching wiseguy gets a crowbar to the head. Before the moaning criminals can set upon you again, she snatches you up and flies away.

This is all a little overdramatic. You could have escaped without her help. After all, you fend off an average of four assassination attempts per month and perpetrate a few yourself. She didn’t do you any favors, you tell her (or try to, suddenly standing in the hall outside your quarters, her small broad hands pushing you toward the door). 

She just laughs and zaps herself away.

\--

Aside from a painful wound dressing and the notable worsening of your mood, Thursday passes much the same as Tuesday. You pore over mounds of reports and even venture a little into Jack’s abandoned, ever-growing pile of paperwork, but no one has anything to say about a maroon troll fairy.

That evening, you go for a well-deserved nightcap after work. You used to visit this bar all the time, but you haven’t been since the boss had it remodeled. Place doesn’t seem that different, though there’s an aquatic-themed chandelier in the bathroom and the liquor selection features a few more pink bottles than usual. Then you try to order a drink.

What’ll you have, the bartender asks. You’ve got your wine coolers, your hard lemonades, your cream- and sugar-based specialty liqueurs…

None of that lady stuff, you tell him. Give me something good and hard.

That’s how you wind up staring down a whipped cream vodka on the rocks. 

You take a whiff. It smells like fake sweets and regret. You try a swallow, and nearly spit it out. Someone fails to stifle a laugh. You look up to see who would dare.

She’s at the other end of the bar, sipping red beverage from a goblet half as big as her head. The rim is studded with sparkling lumps that are either sugar crystals or rhinestones, maybe both (you don’t know _what_ to believe anymore). She meets your eyes and smiles with pink fangs.

You don’t have patience for this horseplay, but it’s late and you’re tired and you don’t really want to arrest her either. You give her a stiff nod and turn away. Then you hear her calling the bartender over, ordering something. Soon a little glass of milky white liquid is sliding across the bar into your vision.

Compliments of the lady, bartender says.

You take a sip. Licorice. She’s gone when you look over.

\--

On Friday, prison guards report noticing unusual activity around the empty solitary confinement suite. One claims to have heard a music box playing, another the melodic whispering of ghostly voices. Both reports are, of course, utterly ridiculous. What kind of idiot would set their shady dealings to a soundtrack? Or let ghosts talk? Dead people don’t talk. It’s one of your favorite things about them.

While patrolling an upper corridor of the prison, you are ambushed by a carapace with an uncanny resemblance to the late Hegemonic Brute. You shoot him in the face many times, but he doesn’t seem bothered. Instead, he just sort of towers over you, menacing. Then she appears behind you, and he fades away.

“I don’t have much time,” she starts, and then falls over laughing. Sounds like wordplay. You shoot her. The bullet freezes in midair.

“You don’t need to be like that,” she chides. You shoot her again.

After she disappears this time, you find a note tucked into your pocket. Underneath an address, it reads: _Meet me here tomorrow night. I have something for you._

\--

The address leads you to a partly abandoned building in the bad part of town (or at least as bad a part of town as you have in this city). The windows are barred, there’s no name on the door, and the lady who answers the door glares at you suspiciously. But she directs you down a steep flight of stairs to the basement, where an illegal speakeasy is operating.

She’s waiting for you at a small shabby table that creaks alarmingly when you sit down and rest your elbows on it. She hands you a glass of that licorice stuff, and you fetch and light two cigarettes. She takes a drag of hers and immediately starts hacking smoke.

Once she stops coughing, you appraise her. Maybe it’s the light, maybe it’s just the drink, but you realize that she is beautiful. She’s a little young for you, of course. Still. Her hair is curled and done up fancy; it could rival the old lady’s if she grew it out, you think. Her wings are tucked away somewhere. She bothered to put on a proper dress instead of the pajamas, a shimmery wine-red number whose slinky, sequin-punctuated fit elicits both your interest and your approval. You look away.

“You know, it’s going to be over soon,” she says. You politely indicate that you don’t know what the hell she’s talking about.

She laughs. “You’ll know soon enough. Here, I have something for you.” She rummages through a bag behind her and produces a large box, which she sets on the table.

You knock back the rest of your drink and take a look. Beneath layers of musty, crinkled tissue paper lies…a hat. The accessory is unfamiliar, but stylish. You pick it up, and glance at her for direction.

“You can wear it if you want. Or…if you don’t want. Whatever you like. It’s just a gift.” The way she looks down when she says this implies that it is not just a gift.

You place it on your head. Would she like another round, you ask. She says yes, startled and pleased.

You don’t know what she’s doing here, or why she’s doing it, or if you’ll ever see her again after tonight. You don’t even know if you’re committing treason just by being here. But you have never been one to turn down a date with a deadly and beautiful dame, and you’re not leaving till this round is finished.

**Author's Note:**

> The milky white drink Aradia orders for DD is [arak](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arak_%28drink%29) mixed with water.


End file.
